Schoolboy antics, sons down from university with all their silly carryings-on!'
Well, that was alright, then! One of their fellow diners looked ready to call for quill, ink, and paper to begin setting down the bylaws, instanter!
Grandly liveried waiters set out fresh glasses, dishes of grapes and berries, plates of sliced cheeses with both sweet and salted biscuits before them, along with baskets of assorted nuts, with shell bowls and nutcrackers.
Sir Hugo sternly proposed a toast to the King; safe to do, with the water glasses removed, so toasting Hanoverian George III could not be rendered into one for the exiled Stuart claimant, the 'king over the water,' by a sly pass of one's port glass!
'Gentlemen, allow me to propose our second,' Captain Browne said as he got to his feet. 'In honour of our dining companion who fought at Camperdown, and won us the marvellous victory all England celebrates tonight… to the Royal Navy, and Camperdown!'
'Navy… and Camperdown!' they concisely echoed, on their feet. Lewrie, too, rose, though a naval officer never stood to toast the King if he valued his scalp. Low deck beams made their own tradition.
Which sentiment was quickly followed by a toast to Admiral Duncan, now made Baron Duncan of Lundie and Viscount Duncan of Camperdown; then followed by a toast to Lewrie himself, as a representative of the fleet that had won the victory, through which he modestly sat, forming turns of phrase in his head for the expected gallant response.
'Gentlemen, my thanks to you for the honour, though I must confess that my part in the battle was not that significant,' he answered in kind, though the gold Camperdown Medal bestowed upon him by the King that afternoon tinkled against the matching Battle of Cape St. Vincent Medal.
'Pshaw!' Sir Hugo objected. 'You took one of their frigates!'
Their boisterous toasting and cheering had drawn enough notice from the elegant crowd in the dining rooms, but his father said it loud enough to turn it into an attention-getting boast on the 'spawn of his loins.'
'Allow me to answer with a three-fold proposal,' Alan said as he got to his feet a trifle unsteadily, making a supportive triangle from the fingers of his right hand for a moment, before taking up a refilled glass of port to hold before him and peer into its semi-opaque redness as if for inspiration.
'First, for my ship, the Proteus frigate, the finest, soundest Fifth Rate that ever swam. Secondly, to her crew, the bravest tars ever plied rammer, rope, or cutlass. From highest to lowest, they produced victory, ev'ry man jack! And lastly to our recent foes, the Dutch. They fought us English-fashion, hull-to-hull, yardarm-to-yardarm, and held stout to the last, past the time when their hopes were gone. Gentlemen, I give you HMS Proteus, her crew, and a worthy foe!'
'Proteus… tars/sailors/yer crew… the Dutch/foes!' others babbled, mangling his toast. Lewrie feared it would be too much for them, but to Blazes with that, he thought; they were lusty and loud, and that was what counted- loud enough to raise 'Huzzahs!' from the onlookers, too, who'd been drawn by the noise at their table.
'Tryin' t'prove yer sobriety?' his father teasingly said as he seated himself again. 'Showin' how you can still form compound sentences this late?'
'Wanted it out and done, before I went under the table,' Lewrie told him. 'Else we'd all be half-seas-over before we got round to the toasts to the ladies!'
Quite a few of the onlookers were fashionably dressed ladies in company of male companions, or two women out together despite the rigid rules of London Society; dashing, unconventional morts who ogled him as openly as he'd ogle them, given the chance, A mixture of hero worship, sympathy for his nobly-wounded 'wing,' that broken left arm still hung in a neat sling-one or two licking their lips and half-lidding eyes. 'Here, Captain Lewrie,' the elegantly dressed man, Mr. Lumsden, whom they'd discovered was a City banker, demanded. 'The papers don't tell us half of how 'twas done. Do give us your account of it. Tell us the whole tale!'
'Aye, and leave nought out!' another pressed. 'Well…' Lewrie said, unwillingly forced to his feet again by their enthusiasm and the chance to preen for an audience. 'I will need the biscuits, nuts, and such, if you really insist.'
A row of salted biscuits quickly formed the Dutch coast, while walnuts became ships of the line, and smaller hickories became frigates and sloops of war. Lewrie looked at his creation, trying to picture a bird's view from the confused, smoke and haze-riddled scene he'd had from his quarterdeck, wondering where or how to start to explain it at all. How does one re-organise chaos?
'When we sighted them, the wind was out of the Nor'Nor'west and fairly strong,' he said, arrowing a hand, slant-wise, at the long line of Dutch ships. 'I'm told they had been sailing Easterly, making for Calais and the Channel, but came about when our scouting frigates got hull-up on 'em.'
'Running,' the abstemious gentleman pronounced. 'Or luring us into shoal water, where their shallow-draught ships could fight, sir,' Lewrie corrected him. 'The coast was only five miles or so to loo'rd, and it shoals quickly, like tilting this table just a bit… at low tide, a man could wade out half a mile, and be only up to his chest by then. Last cast of the log showed ten fathom… only sixty feet of water.'
'We'll need a translator, for all the nautical jargon!' one of the diners hooted.
'The Dutch had sixteen ships of the line… well, lighter than ours, really, and not all of 'em built as warships. Converted Dutch East Indiamen trapped in home ports,' Lewrie went on. 'Admiral Duncan had eight ships in his division, with his flagship, Venerable, in the very lead. Here,' he said, pointing to the easternmost gaggle. 'And Vice-Admiral
Onslow's division, with Monarch in the lead, were quite a bit West of Duncan's, strung out all higgledy- piggledly, d'ye see, in no proper order, since some of the older ships were poor sailers, even off the wind. 'Round eleven of the morning, Admiral Duncan even had to haul up to windward and beat back towards Onslow's group, so we could go in as a fleet, not a complete shambles.'
Venerable, Ardent, and Triumph had led, two 3rd Rate 74s, with a two-decker 64; a following wedge was made up of a lone 74-gunner, Bedford, flanked by a pair of 64s, Lancaster, and Capt. William 'Breadfruit' Bligh's HMS Director. A third trio in loose order was even further astern; Belliqueiux, a 64-gunner, supported by two old two- deck 50-gun 4th Rate ships, Adamant and his.
Vice-Admiral Onslow's group to the West had his flagship Monarch in the lead, with Powerful and Monmouth echeloned off to her right and stern, another pair of 74s with a 64; aft of them sailed a brace of 3rd Rate 74s, Russel and Montagu; trailing them was another pair, the 64-gunned Veteran and the 40-gun frigate Beaulieu.
Well, there should have been a third 64-gun 3rd Rate with them, HMS Agincourt, but she was far astern, and damn her Capt. Williamson for hanging back the entire three hours of the battle!
'Not the strongest fleet, gentlemen,' Lewrie said, after naming them. 'The rest, we frigates and gunboats, were in the centre. Rose, Active, and Martin were line-ahead together… a pair of twelve-gunned sloops, with a sixteen-gunner. Near their larboard side were Diligent and King George, hired cutters with six and twelve guns. Speculator, astern of them, was a hired lugger with only eight guns! The Circe frigate was here, East of the sloops and cutters, and my own ship was here… a bit East of Circe, and nigh level with Captain Bligh's ship, Director… well, perhaps a tad ahead of her, nearer the Bedford,' he said, shifting a hickory nut forward a half-inch.
'We were about four miles to windward of 'em when Duncan gave a signal to bear down and engage 'em. We repeated the signal, then bore off Easterly, with a touch of Southing, to pin the Dutch against their own coast, as it trends Northerly…'
'Translator!' an idle stroller who had come to observe over the others' shoulders cried.
'This way.' Lewrie grinned, employing a nutcracker for use as a wind-pointer. 'With the wind large on our larboard quarters. Admiral Duncan hoisted orders as we. neared them; first, to pass through their line and engage from leeward, meaning to break their line apart with a pair of hammer-blows 'gainst their centre and rear. It was cloudy and hazy, so how many ships got that signal, I can't say. After that, he flew 'Close Action.' I really do think, did he have to go aground and fight them on dry land, he'd have done so. Admiral Duncan is a terror, sirs… a right terror.'
Duncan, that giant with the full, unruly mane of snow-white hair on his head, that tall, athletic form that towered over six-feet-four, of the massive calves that made the ladies swoon when he donned silk stockings… as hardy and strong as a Scots ghillie who had coursed the Highlands like an elkhound since childhood!
' 'Twas said of him that during the recent naval mutiny at the Nore, and his own harbour of Great Yarmouth, Duncan had seized one of the ringleaders by the scruff of the neck, held him out arm horizontal, dangling a full- grown man over the side of his flagship 'til the canting bastard squealed for mercy!' Lewrie related.
A man of great anger, too, who'd prefer the ancient punishment for blasphemy of searing the malefactor's
